


did it hurt (when you fell from the ceiling)?

by DinoDina



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Established Relationship, F/M, Love, Mild Hurt/Comfort, but god forbid they call it a relationship, forgive the title i just wanted to post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26462905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinoDina/pseuds/DinoDina
Summary: Jaskier's ready to go to bed, but then Yennefer appears in his room - falls into his arms from the ceiling, of all things - and bedtime is a bit delayed.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	did it hurt (when you fell from the ceiling)?

The room is empty and well-lit— _peaceful_ , is Jaskier's first thought, which is exactly when the ceilings ripples out of existence and Yennefer of Vengerberg falls into his arms.

Fucking sorceress.

There goes his night of sleep, but Jaskier can't even mourn it properly as she tries to clamber out of his arms, which is no easy task given the state of her skirts and his instinct to hold her tighter to make sure she doesn't fall.

"Bard!" she spits out, and is instantly on her feet, as if by magic—but Jaskier would attribute it more to his quick instincts.

He opens his mouth to spit something petty right back—not that he's thought of it yet—and stops when she hisses and curls down a few centimeters to protect her left side. The words that tumble out of Jaskier's mouth, instead, ask, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Yennefer straightens with a wince Jaskier sees only because he's looking for it.

"Bullshit."

"It's a bruise, it's fine." She brushes past him deeper into the room as if she owns the place. She doesn't. Jaskier makes sure to check for that whenever he stops at an unfamiliar inn, and this one in no exception.

He catches her elbow as she passes, body acting moreso than mind, because no matter her beauty, Jaskier doesn't make a habit of crossing the command of a powerful sorceress. When she doesn't throw him off, Jaskier grips tighter and takes more weight as they move. The power and purpose of Yennefer's steps doesn't waver—it never does, to Jaskier's endless astonishment, no matter how unideal the circumstances they meet in are—and although Jaskier balances her, her singed skirts trailing over the uneven floor, Yennefer is the one that leads them to the bed.

Jaskier wrinkles his nose when she finally pushes him away. "Who was it?"

She undresses and he doesn't turn away, standing far enough not to touch but freely within admiring distance. It's nothing he hasn't seen before, often in times like now, when Yennefer seeks him out—as a safe place, last resort, or accident, he's not sure—but also when they meet in court or on the road, for the life of a contrary sorceress and a travelling bard overlap in the most erotic of ways.

"Help me with this clasp if you're going to stare," Yennefer commands, left arm coming down before the words are fully out.

"At your service." Jaskier gives a small bow.

He's less confident of the clap itself, which is small and fiddly, but gets it undone and keeps going from there, down the buttons of her back, one after the other, even and methodical, stepping away only when Yennefer says "shoo" and does the rest of the work herself, dropping the sleeves and bodice down to her waist. Jaskier is careful not to voice his admiration, for the first words that come to his mind compare Yennefer to a particularly elegant goblet. He's fully aware of the drivel his heart comes up with when it's too occupied with a lover to connect with his brain.

Yennefer stands to let the dress fall all the way down—bless all the Gods, Jaskier loves Yennefer for her heart and brain, but he is weak and Yennefer is perfect until one looks closer, and he has earned the right to do so. She twists to pick it up but stops after only a moment, face twisted into a grimace, and only a second later Jaskier sees why.

"Just a bruise?" he echoes, standing, hovering, wanting to do something and expecting a slap for his presumptuousness.

"It _is_ a bruise."

"Yennefer, darling, I know it's a bruise, it's the size of a fucking house."

"Drivel again, Jaskier."

"I'm more worried about what's underneath it, to be honest." He draws her back down to sit, and prods at it until Yennefer slaps him. "Fuck off."

"You fuck off, it hurts."

Jaskier rubs his stinging hand. "What happened?"

"I have lots of enemies."

"Thanks for that very clarifying and not at all terrifying answer."

Jaskier sits and glares for a few more moments, and Yennefer glares right back. She's better at it. She's murderous most days, while Jaskier is just stabby at best. Still, he's always loved a woman who can drive him into the ground with barely a look, and Yennefer is the scariest woman he knows. In a good way. Oh, Gods, in a good way. What he wouldn't give to have her step on him…

Not now. Now, Yennefer's slid sideways again, tired and grouchy, left side a vibrant, painful purple just under her breast, hiding what are, at best, bruised ribs.

Jaskier's been there—it's not going to be a fun night. He takes advantage of her distraction and presses a kiss to her hairline, standing and moving out of the way before she can properly curse him for it.

"You left a nightgown last time," he says as he goes to riffle through his bags.

He knows Yennefer well enough to see the eyebrow she's raising behind his back, prim, proper, and derisive, and Jaskier doesn't care because the alternative is her sleeping in his spare shirt. Though Jaskier would jump to see it, Yennefer would curse him into a frog at a mere suggestion, and he quite likes being human. He makes quite a good human.

Yennefer snorts from behind him.

"Don't read my mind!"

"There's nothing there to read." Yennefer laughs. "You're just predictable."

"I'll show you predictable…"

"What was that?"

"Nothing." Jaskier scowls at the saccharine smile she's sending him and offers the nightgown. "Fuck off. I'm going to… fuck. I'll get my stuff, lock the door—you want a bath? I—"

"Not right now, Jaskier."

Very good, then. _Jaskier_. He never knows what such a pointed first-name basis will bring, but it's just now dawned on Jaskier that Yennefer is sitting fully naked on the bed that was supposed to be his, while he's still fully dressed after his performance.

This is not how their encounters are supposed to go.

At first, they were always drunk, needing it as an excuse for poor judgement after the fact. They don't have that security anymore—sometimes they say it for old time's sake, as a challenge to tempt fate and each other, making a show of vitriol more as foreplay than anything else. They seek each other out, now, blunt but still romantic. Jaskier, at the very least, thinks he's romantic, eager in his attempts to woo Yennefer, to shower her with the affection she deserves.

On those rare occasions when she _does_ admit to seeking him out, escaping enemies, searching for welcoming rather than hostile arms, it's him that comes out injured—thrown out of court after bringing Yennefer in as an unwelcome guest, rejected by scorned lovers, captured by Yennefer's enemies in the ensuing skirmish.

Jaskier turns his back to Yennefer in an effort to compose himself and catches a final look before getting undressed.

She's sitting upright, still naked, nightgown in hand, terrifying as usual, eyes sparkling and threatening, but there's a pinch around her mouth, a few lines that _should not be there_ , and she's holding herself stiffly in a way Jaskier can see because he knows her—he takes pride in relaxing her, with sex and massages and laughter and kisses, and he knows that she's hurting. The bruise on her side may be just that, a simple bruise, broken blood vessels and discolored skin, but they aren't that lucky. Yennefer's magic potions are far from here, in some magical hideout Jaskier will never win entry into, and it's not like she's good at healing. Magical injuries? Sure, yes, definitely. Bruised ribs? Not so much.

She's in for a long night in an unfamiliar, uncomfortable bed with a lumpy mattress and flat pillows, and only Jaskier and his stray elbows for company.

Jaskier comes back to the bed when he's sure Yennefer's had enough time to compose herself as well. He'll pretend, for the rest of the night, that this is one of those usual nights: they met downstairs, smiling and laughing and scowling at each other, and the night followed them up to Jaskier's room, merry and loud and passionate.

He doesn't like seeing her hurt. Yennefer only sleeps clothed when she has something to hide, like now, when the bruise discolors her side and would draw his gaze away from the breast it's so close to.

She lays on her uninjured side, facing away from Jaskier, and tucks a hand under her cheek. Her breaths are too even when Jaskier moves into bed behind her, raising a hand hesitantly, unsure but wanting to hold her close.

"Stop thinking," she says at last, "it doesn't suit you."

"I'll have you know I'm quite renowned for my—"

"Endless chattering, I know. There's not a single thought behind any word that comes out of your mouth."

"Rude."

"True."

Jaskier relaxes in the easy and unimaginative pattern of insults. He was scared, just for a second, when Yennefer appeared in the room—one of these days, he fears, it will be something he cannot help with.

"Stop it."

 _Get out of my head_ , Jaskier thinks deliberately. Nothing happens. _Fine_. He's long ago come to terms with Yennefer knowing him well enough to read his thoughts without actually digging around in his skull.

Jaskier allows himself one final thought before closing his eyes and finally letting his hand rest on Yennefer's waist: "I'm glad you dropped in on me tonight."

Yennefer smacks him.

Worth it.

It's not the romantic vow of loyalty he's building up to say sometime in the next few years, but Jaskier hopes that below the flat joke, Yennefer can hear his relief at her safety, his gratefulness that it's him she went to, and his utter devotion to her continued existence, that certain something he doubts he will ever tell her outright.

**Author's Note:**

> Seven years writing fanfiction, and this is my first time using the parentheses format for a title. I can't believe I actually used it. Blegh. I blame Jaskier because he annoys me.
> 
> The working title was "Fuckin' Yennskier?? Maybe??" so y'all tell me if this monstrosity is better. 
> 
> In other news, Jaskier and Yennefer's relationship status is: not in love even though they c*ddle and h*old h*ands just as often as they fuck.


End file.
